Lost Time
by Catherine Spark
Summary: On a hiatus whilst doing my PhD, so this is a one-off, spontaneous piece. Thanks for your understanding! Leslie's perspective, then the two families' perspectives, from just before her final swing to Jesse walking into the living room. No happy ending, and it's extermely sad, graphic and detailed. Please read my author's note at the start carefully before beginning the story.


**A/N: Warning: This story is VERY graphic, almost forensic, and potentially very upsetting to the point of a trigger-warning for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or those who have lost a loved one to drowning. It details Leslie's last thoughts, and then switches to a more omniscient viewpoint to detail the entire drowning event, and the aftermath up until when Jesse walks into his family living room, as depicted in the film. I wanted to make the fact of Leslie's death within the story world as starkly real and complete in practical terms as possible. Please bear this in mind before reading. Thank you.**

She's a little afraid as she approaches the rope. She's been here alone before, but never with the water this high. No – I cannot think like that: Terabithia's subjects cry out for their queen. Can those subjects just decide to turn and walk away whenever they feel like it? No – the Dark Master has them under siege, and until the final, glorious triumph alongside her king, it is up to her to fight through and bring them the leadership and supplies they so desperately need. Men, women, children and beasts depend upon her. She thinks of her King now. Away on a fierce mission – she is sure – sourcing allies, strategies and reinforcements. She must deal with home affairs.

She takes the rope, her hands strong and firm, resting on the upper knot as they always do. Above her the wind howls, but the rain has ceased. Below her the torrent rages like chocolate froth, carrying twigs, sheep's wool and small stones along with it. Her feet squelch, inches away from the water. Her hands grip tighter. Again she feels a twinge, but pushes it back impatiently. Why should she be afraid? She is up here, protected by this thick, sturdy rope, and the water is down there. It's not going to rear up and snatch her. And it's the same rope – the same bank – the same creek – the same distance across.

She kicks back, raises her feet and plunges in an arc across to the other side. But this bank is even muddier than the near side, and she can find no grip. She swings back over the creek, spinning in an uneven circle, and it's on the upswing back over the point at which she started that the rope breaks.

She doesn't see it happen, but feels the tension snap in her arms. Now unsupported in its vertical position, her body tumbles backwards and hits the ground. Her head makes contact with a stone and every sound, sight and sense – both internal and external cuts out. She rolls over and her lower half slides down into the creek. For a second her upper half lies unmoving, suspended, face-up, draped over the bank. Then, as the current pulls at her legs, she begins an inexorable slide down and sideways, until with a quiet splosh, she submerges.

Although she is unconscious, the cold-shock makes her arms and legs flail in a pathetic harking-back to the mammalian diving reflex. She inhales, and her larynx goes into autonomic spasm, shutting off her airway to protect it from the water that threatens to flood it. She floats on her back, covered by a thin film, the broken rope tangled on her right arm, her hair and jacket billowing out in a halo around her. A hundred yards downstream her thrashing movements weaken. She bumps against a section of the bank that juts out. Now her limbs twitch feebly. Her nose and mouth exude white foam, which mingles with the froth already there, before being whipped away downstream. And then her body relaxes. Her fingers uncurl, water enters her lungs through her slack lips, and as her eyes half-open, her pupils dilate. It has been only six minutes since the rope broke. She will continue to give the occasional twitch – residual nervous energy – for the next hour and a half.

It's Leslie's parents who ring Jesse's parents three hours later, when they shout to Leslie to come in for lunch, and she doesn't materialise. Is Leslie over at your house? Jesse isn't there either? Are they both down in the woods again? Jesse's father has on occasion snuck down to check that the two of them are all right – he knows they go there to play in an abandoned, rickety old tree-house, and it seems to be a game to run from him whenever he shows himself. Jesse's mother has occasionally enquired as to the safety of the whole thing, but his father cuts her off every time, maintaining that Jesse is a big boy and can make his own judgements and mistakes. As for Leslie, it is not their business to set boundaries for her, as she is not their child.

Now though, everyone joins forces. Brenda and Ellie are told to stay at the house and watch May Bell and the baby. Then the parents venture down, stiff and awkward, following in the wake of Jesse's father. When they see the snapped rope and the twisting, gushing water, a jolt of dread passes through all of them. They split – the mothers going upstream, and the fathers going downstream, in grim, focussed silence, apart from the odd shout of one or other child's name.

At first Bill Burke thinks it's a plastic sheet of some sort that has drifted into the water – part of a silage bale, perhaps, or something to keep weeds off growing vegetables once they have taken root and established their leaves. He's seen ones like it driving past the fields on one of his psychogeography writing trips. But those are usually black or grey – very rarely red. Miss Bessie, the Aarons' cow, is standing over it, staring intently. It bobs up and down. Then he sees a wet slick of blonde hair, and some half-curled, white fingers.

His mind numbs. His vision swims. Parental love and overpowering anguish burst from his chest in a primal scream which echoes throughout the entire wood, sending birds squawking from the treetops and squirrels leaping through branches. Miss Bessie gives a startled kick and lumbers chaotically up the hill and away. Bill shoves past a shell-shocked Mr Aarons, plunges into the water and hauls his daughter ashore in his arms. He stretches her out, waterlogged and completely motionless, on the bank. His legs give way and his fingers shake so much he cannot even undo the zip of her coat or untangle the old worn rope, with its frayed end, from her arm. Eventually he falls back, paralysed with shock and dry-sobbing. Mr Aarons takes over, opening her coat and rolling her onto her side. She is limp and heavy. A trickle of water oozes from translucent, wet, white lips. He places the palm of one hand on her back and the other on her stomach, and presses the two together in a Heimlich manoeuvre. The stream of water that issues forth from her nose and mouth is meagre, utterly passive, swells for a moment and then subsides. There is no gag or vomit reflex. He opens one of her eyes fully with his finger and thumb, and his own fill with tears. Even though he knows it's futile, he starts CPR and mouth-to-mouth. At that moment the two mothers come darting into sight, summoned by the urgency and horror of Bill Burkes' scream.

The paramedics arrive fifteen minutes later and pronounce Leslie dead on the spot. Then the police arrive and cordon off the area. It doesn't take long to establish what happened – Leslie has a large swelling on the back of her head, and combined with what the parents already know, the rope tells its own story. The area is un-cordoned, and the question remains: where is Jesse? After a thorough search around the immediate area, the police conclude that there is no reason to assume anyone else has been harmed or was even involved in the tragedy. Even so, a cloud of fear hangs over his family. Both sets of parents are escorted back to their respective houses for questioning. The police finish with Jesse's parents first, and some of them return to the woods to check for signs of his whereabouts.

Ten minutes after the police left and set up camp next door, Jesse's family sit, alone, yet together, in the living room, crying and confused. It is at this point that Jesse – his face shining with a quiet exaltation – walks through the front door.


End file.
